We ponder the significant nights, the ones spent with temporary lovers, broken potential. The chaos of what could be lit up by glistening sequin dresses, a pop of highlighter, and pointy-toed stilettos. Kisses and arguments shared in between sips of pink gin, the fear gripping the night as we check the delivered status of that last risky text. The sparkle and disaster of certain nights, of certain men, stays with us… but what about the gals?
Where are the women I poured my heart out to beside a sink full of vomit? Where are the women that passed toilet roll into my cubicle when they heard the tears start to flow? All the hugs and words that pieced our broken hearts back together in a room full of kindness at 1am, are they still lighting these women up every day? So we’ve left the pub bathroom… what next?
We all know we’ve passed these women again, often on a casual Saturday afternoon outside Penneys or New Look, the awkward half-smile while you both wonder: “I wonder if she remembers that night?” Often she’s with the guy you encouraged her to dump, and often she’s not.
We all meet these women, make new friends, reapply our lippie as she explains why she’s absolutely fuming tonight. We’ve read the screenshots, shared the tears, cried with laughter, deleted the stories the morning after. And of all the places I’ve been, the girls bathroom, no matter the location, always welcomes me home somehow.